Author's Note: This chapter features discussion of the adult entertainment industry, some details about personal grooming that might squick some people out, sexual content, and vague reference to past assault.

"To lose one parent may be regarded as misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness." -Oscar Wilde

196 days sober I’m already on my way to the city to meet Mom for my birthday dinner when Jamie texts to let me know that he has just landed at JFK. I’m sure you have plans of some sort already, the message says, but if you have some spare time later tonight, may I swing by the house? I want to give you your present. I call him instead of texting, and when he picks up, the first words out of my mouth are, “I’m about twenty minutes away from you right now. If you’re willing to wait, I can pick you up at the airport.” “You don’t have to do that,” he says, and then, in almost the same breath, “Thank you. Meet me at the baggage claim?” “Yeah. See you in a bit,” I say. The moment I’ve ended the call and come to a stoplight, I call my mom. “Happy birthday,” she warbles down the line at me. I cringe. Definitely didn’t get my singing talent from her. “Listen, Mom, I’m going to be a little bit late.” “Are you ever on-time?” she sighs. “Sometimes, but I don’t—no, you know what? Shut up, I was close to being early, but Jamie just called to say he’s back in New York, so I’m gonna pick him up from the airport. He might want to hang out after, I didn’t ask. I know he wants to give me my birthday present, but I’m not going to ditch him five seconds after—” “Garen,” Mom interrupts. “I understand. Tell him he’s more than welcome to join us for dinner, if he’d like to. He shouldn’t be alone now. Give that boy a hug for me.” I can’t see how I could ever let him go now. When I get to JFK, park the car, and make my way to baggage claim, I find that giving Jamie a hug isn’t really an option; one of his hands is holding the handle of his suitcase, and the other is clutching a pet carrier. I murmur a greeting, and he lets me wrap an arm around his shoulders, even though he can’t hug me back. “Happy birthday,” he says. “I’m sorry if I’ve interrupted your plans.” “I’m supposed to meet Mom for dinner, but I told her I was picking you up instead. She wants you to come out with us, if you’re feeling up to it,” I say. I press a quick kiss to his cheek and add, “How are you?” “I can’t wait to get back to the apartment,” he confesses. “I read online that flying with animals tends to go better if you keep them in the cabin with you, stashed in a carrier under the seat in front of you. But this little bitch spent the entire flight trying to claw through the side of the damn thing to get at me. I should’ve just tossed her in the cargo hold and let her get crushed by someone’s suitcase. And did you know that you have to take kittens out of their carriers and bring them through the security checkpoint in your arms? The carrier needed to be scanned, and it’s obviously not safe to send an animal through an X-ray, so I had to try to keep a hold on her while she did her best to fight her way to freedom. An entire line of people watched me nearly lose a fight with a kitten smaller than my shoe. It was shameful.” Given that I have no real sense of self-preservation, I poke a finger into the pet carrier and wiggle it, just to see if I’ll get attacked, too. Zooey bats at it, nibbles just once, then rubs the space behind her ears against my knuckle. Jamie looks pissed. I retract my hand and say, somewhat lamely, “Ow. She, uh… bit me.” “She did not,” Jamie says. He raises the carrier to face height and peers in at her. “Why don’t you like me, you furry asshole?” “Maybe she speaks English,” I say, shrugging. “You insult her every time you talk to her, and she probably takes it personally.” “I insult you all the time as well, but that doesn’t mean you bite me every time I try to pet you,” Jamie mutters. In the interest of keeping him in one piece, I take the cat carrier from him and let him be the one to carry the suitcase out to the car. He looks tempted to ask if we can toss the kitten in the trunk, too, but when I give him A Look, he reluctantly lets the cat carrier ride shotgun with him. Of course, it’s with a very sternly spoken, “Zooey, if you piss in this thing while it is on my lap, I will feed you to a police horse in Central Park. I am not joking.” “Is she litter-trained?” I ask, pulling out of the parking garage. “Do you need me to stop at a Petco or something so you can pick up supplies for her?” “She’s trained. Well, she’s litter-trained, not trained in the ways of behaving like a pleasant and respectable companion,” Jamie says. “I went online a few days ago and placed an order for everything she should need—a litterbox, feeding dishes, a scratching post. It was all shipped in, and I spoke to my building’s concierge, who was more than happy to use the maintenance key to my apartment so that it would all be set up when I get there. Granted, this was after I informed him that I’d finally be shelling out for that exorbitant pet fee. I suspect he would’ve agreed to eat his own meals out of a cat dish, for that amount.” Sure enough, when we get to the apartment, there is a full dish of kibble on the ground next to the refrigerator, and a ridiculous floor-to-ceiling climbing tree set up in the corner of the living room. It’s black and white, just like the rest of the room. I stare at it. “Seriously, dude? There are like, a dozen levels to this thing. I don’t think she’s even big enough to climb from one piece to the next. Don’t you think this might be a little… I dunno. Extravagant?” Jamie scoffs. “What did you expect me to buy, a ten-dollar scratching post that’s nothing more than a strip of carpet stapled to a cardboard tube? She’s a Goldwyn; she needs something a bit extravagant, or she won’t fit in with the family. Besides, she’ll grow into it.” I unzip the carrier and scoop Zooey out of it, holding her aloft and intoning, “Everything the light touches is your kingdom.” “She’s not Simba, for fuck’s sake,” Jamie says. “Now help me find where the doorman put her litter box, because if she pees on my white carpet, I’ll toss her off the balcony and see if she bounces.” The litter box is in the bathroom, rightfully so. I plunk Zooey down on the tile in front of it and leave her there while I go search for any toys Jamie might have bought her. Sitting in a box on his bed, there are a few stuffed mice with bells and feathers and bullshit attached, and a long ribbon that dangles from the end of a stick, and a cushion full of catnip. All of that loses my interest pretty quickly, though, because Zooey’s bed is on the floor at the foot of Jamie’s own bed. And the cat bed is an actual bed. Or, a sofa, I guess, because it has arms and a back, and it’s only maybe two feet wide, but still, it’s made of fucking memory foam. It matches the decor. I stride back out into the kitchen to say, “Are you fucking kidding me with that cat bed? I know humans with smaller beds than that.” “Speaking of…” Jamie murmurs. It’s then that I notice that he’s holding a folded piece of paper that was apparently left tented on the counter. I watch his eyes track back and forth as he reads, and when he finishes, he passes it to me. J— it reads. Travis and I took the liberty of cooking you a few meals and storing them in your freezer. We didn’t know what else to do, or how else we might help. If you need anything else, please let one of us know. Thoughts and prayers with you. Ben. The bottom half of the page has heating instructions for the food, but squeezed between Ben’s name and the instructions is a short note in Travis’ handwriting: All the parts about cooking should have been singular. He did all the work while I sat on your couch and watched Mythbusters. Hope you’re taking care of yourself. Love you. Ben does, too. The last sentence has been hastily scribbled out, probably by Ben himself. I toss the note onto the counter, but Jamie picks it right back up and secures it to the front of the refrigerator with a magnet. Since he’s there anyway, he digs around in the freezer, eventually surfacing with a baking dish of lasagna and a groan. “Sweet Lord, I’m going to eat this entire thing at once,” he says. “I’ve been living off nothing but lowcounty cooking for two fucking weeks now, and I swear, if I never see another piece of fried chicken in my life, I will be a happy man.” “You’re sharing that,” I order, pointing at the lasagna with one hand, twisting the knob on the oven with the other. “Ben’s lasagna is the food of the gods. I’ve proposed to him twice over it.” “If it’s that good, I suppose I have to share,” Jamie sighs. “Perhaps you could call Marian and ask if she’d like to come here, too. We could all eat this instead of going anywhere. That is, if you wouldn’t prefer something a bit more elegant for a birthday dinner.” I snort. “Yeah, Jamie, ‘cause if there’s on thing in the world that I’m concerned with, it’s the elegance of my meals. Come on. You’ve seen me lie down on a dorm room bed so that I could eat off of my own chest just because I was too lazy to look for a plate.” Jamie looks revolted at the memory. “You were eating macaroni salad. If it had been a sandwich, that would have been one thing. I could even forgive pizza, though the grease would be messy. But there was mayonnaise smeared all over you. It was disgusting.” “Fuck off. I showered right after,” I say, sending my mom a text to alert her to the change of plans. “Or, well, fairly soon after. Anyway, you’re the one who just said you plan to eat this entire lasagna by yourself, so who’s the fatass now?” “I was exaggerating,” Jamie says loftily. I’m not too sure he was, though. By the time my mom rings the buzzer thirty minutes later, the lasagna is ready. Jamie dons some gay-looking oven mitts, removes it from the oven, and lifts the corner of the tinfoil to sniff at it. And then, in a move that surprises even me, he whines, grabs a fork, and sits right down in the middle of the kitchen floor. When Mom finally gets to the apartment door and lets herself in, she finds Jamie reclining against the fridge and eating lasagna right out of the serving dish, and me standing over him with my phone in hand. Mom cocks her head to the side and asks, “James, dear. Are you stoned?” “Surprisingly, no,” I say, taking another picture of him as he sucks a smear of sauce off the inside of his wrist. I send the picture to Ben, along with the message, jamie just converted, he now worships your cooking as much as i do. marry us both, polygamy totally ok in the church of the holy cannoli. “Ben McCutcheon is trying to prove his worthiness as a prospective mate by demonstrating his skills as a food provider, and Jamie is accepting his advances by feasting like a savage. Also, by getting severely dicked the next time they hang out, probably. It’s all very Animal Planet.” “Delightful,” Mom says. “It is, isn’t it?” I agree cheerfully. A minute later, Ben sends a reply. Cannoli are Sicilian. But I could make a tiramisu that would get your dick hard. Almost immediately after, another text comes. Glad he’s enjoying the food. I show Jamie the messages. He wipes his hands on a dish towel and takes out his own phone, and I use his momentary distraction to steal the lasagna from him and Zooey, who has finished her exploration of the apartment and now seems to mostly want to explore the meal. Mom takes the dish from me and sets it on a potholder in the middle of the table. She asks, “Do we get to use plates and forks, or are we also going to be accepting Ben McCutcheon’s advances by dining like savages? Because I must say, I think he’s a bit too young for me. Also, a bit too interested in men.” “Don’t worry, Mom, I’ve boned him enough for the both of us. So has Jamie,” I assure her. I retrieve three plates from the cupboard, then three forks and a spatula from a drawer so that I can start doling out portions of the lasagna. “That’s a fairly recent development, isn’t it?” Mom says, eying Jamie. He glances up from his phone, hesitates, then admits, “That probably depends on how you’re choosing to view the situation. The advances? Those have been going on for nearly five months. The dating is more recent, in that I have asked him out—twice—and he has accepted—twice—but we haven’t had a chance to actually go anywhere.” “I’m going to Connecticut this Saturday,” I say. “I’ve got therapy at the LRC at eleven, but I was going to head to New Haven after that. Al and I are probably going to meet up with Stohler. If you want, you can come along and hang out with Ben before he has to be at work at two. Maybe you guys could get lunch together or something. Finally get around to that first date.” Mom shoots me a warning look. “Or not,” I hastily add. “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to date yet. You don’t have to date anybody. Ever, if that’s what you want. I mean, if there’s other stuff you want to focus on, or other things that are making it hard for you to uh, form an emotional connection—” “‘Other stuff’ like my parents being dead? You can say the words. It won’t make them any more or less gone,” Jamie says dryly. “Trust me, Garen. That is the absolute last thing I want to focus on. I’ll come to New Haven with you—I’ll be at your house to pick you up at nine on Saturday. We can take the Cadillac.” I frown. “Fuckin’ excuse you, but what’s wrong with my Ferrari?” “What’s wrong with your Ferrari is that it would fold like a fucking sheet of paper in a wreck,” Jamie says. “Trust me, I’ve spent the past few days looking up the safety statistics and watching videos of crash test demonstrations for the vehicles driven by everyone I know and care about. You ever crash that Ferrari, and you’re dead ” That’s… incredibly twisted, but I don’t think I have any right to say so. Instead, I take a bite of lasagna and stare at my plate. Jamie adds, “You should check your email more often, by the way. I sent you a list of cars you should consider trading it in for.” And the thing is, I love my car, but I love Jamie more. I know he can be a bit… obsessive. If he’s going to be picturing me totaling the Testarossa and dying a horrible, fiery death just like his parents every time I drive around the block, it’s not worth keeping. I say, “I’ll look at the list. And I’ll think about it.” “Thank you. The fact that you’ll even do that much means a lot to me,” he says quietly. “I know the car was a present.” “A birthday present,” I clarify. It’s the easiest way to dig our way out of this sudden mess of a conversation. “And oh wait, it’s my birthday right now. And a little bird told me I’d be getting a present.” “A little bird did tell you that, yes,” Jamie agrees. He stands up and tucks the phone back into his pocket before he strides out of the room and down the hall. A minute passes, and when he returns, he is holding a hardshell guitar case. My heart stops beating. “What the fuck,” I say. “Dude, you didn’t.” Jamie looks at the case, then back at me. “I pretty clearly did. Perhaps now, you’ll stop bitching about how badly you wish you had an acoustic guitar.” He frowns at himself, then corrects, “Acoustic-electric. The midget helped me pick this out—” “You mean, you told him you wanted to get me a guitar, he picked it out entirely on his own, and you footed the bill,” I interrupt. “Yes, that. Anyway, he was quite specific that it was an acoustic-electric. Which I would hope means something to you, because it means nothing to me,” he says. He carefully sets it down on the table and unlatches it. “Would you like to see it?” I nod. He flips open the lid, and I want to fucking cry. It’s a gorgeous, cherry red dreadnought, nestled in a bed of plush red lining, and it’s so perfect that I’m afraid to touch it. Instead of getting my possibly-sauce-covered hands all over it, I turn and throw my arms around Jamie’s neck. “Thank you. I love you. Thank you,” I say. “It’s beautiful. I can’t wait to play it.” “That was an incredibly thoughtful gift, James,” Mom says. “I’m sure it will come in very handy this fall… when Garen goes off to college and starts his music program.” Jamie pulls away from the hug to shoot me a curious look, like he thinks I might have planned my entire future while he was off in Georgia. I just look at Mom and sigh. “How did I know you were going to find a way to bring this up sometime tonight?” “Because you’re a clever young man,” she says. “Clever enough that I’m sure any school would be lucky to have you as a student. In fact, I can think of about five schools who should have made their decision regarding that very issue.” “You mean… these five schools?” I say. I haul my backpack out from under the table where I dropped it and dig around in it until I find the five sealed envelopes. Two of them are huge, and everyone knows the huge envelope means they’re sending you brochures and orientation information because you got in. Mom practically falls onto one of them, tearing it halfway open before she realizes they’re not even her letters. She freezes, then gestures to it and asks, “May I?” “Opening someone else’s mail is a federal offense,” I say. She narrows her eyes. “It’s called obstruction of correspondence, and it’s only applicable if the person opening the letter does so before the recipient is aware of its delivery. You are more than aware of these letters’ delivery, because you handed them to me. Permission to open them is implied. Don’t you dare try to use the law to stop me from invading your life, because that is not a battle you will win.” I flick my fingers towards the letters, a sort of go ahead then gesture. She flies into a letter-opening frenzy, and less than two minutes later, I’m staring down at four acceptances and one rejection. NYU, Berklee, OSU, and the Manhattan School of Music all want me; Northwestern wants me to go fuck myself. Mom flings this last letter in the direction of the trash can. It flutters to the floor, and Jamie retrieves it, reads it, and tosses it out. “This is excellent, Garen,” Mom says. Despite the fact that she’s been telling me for months that I’m bound to get in everywhere, the relief is plain on her face. “I’m so proud of you. You should call your father, I’m sure he’ll be—” “I’m not going,” I interrupt. She stares at me. I shrug. “I kept my end of the agreement, didn’t I? He said he wanted me to apply to five schools, and I applied. I told you both from the beginning that it wouldn’t change anything. I don’t want to go to college.” There is a very long, very uncomfortable moment of silence. Jamie coughs. “Perhaps you should take some more time before you make your final decision. Really give it some thought,” he says carefully. “Two of these schools are right here in the city. Maybe you could choose one of them. Once you graduate, you won’t have to live out in Pelham to be halfway between here and Patton. If you and Travis were both students here, it would make sense for the two of you to move to Manhattan.” He spreads his arms to the sides, indicating the apartment. “Hell, you could move in here. It’d be a great big roommate reunion.” “There are three of us and only two bedrooms,” I point out. “Plus, Omelette might eat your kitten.” “That wouldn’t be much of a loss, if it would stop her from eying my sofa like she’s considering the best way to shred the leather. And she’s not my kitten, she’s my ma—” Jamie breaks off and scowls down at Zooey, who is batting at my untied boot lace. “They might adapt to one another. They’re both still young enough that I’m sure they’d get used to it. And as to the number of bedrooms, Travis has made it abundantly clear that he intends to be back in your bed the moment you’re officially one year sober.” For a split second, I have the twisted desire to retort, I might not ever make it to a full year sober, with my track record. But I’m not cruel enough to say that in front of my mom, who is still rereading the acceptance letters. Instead, I say, “You’re working with outdated information. A lot went down while you were in Georgia.” Specifically, me, on a straight boy, after stealing a police cruiser. Another thing I’m sure my mom would love to hear. “I’ve got a new guy now. Travis knows about him, too. Doesn’t give a shit.” Travis would hate me for saying he doesn’t care, and Declan would hate me for pretending that our grope in the woods was anything more than an experimental one-off, but I just want to get everyone off my back, and making them uncomfortable seems to be the only way to ensure that. It doesn’t work. Mom looks up from the letters and narrows her eyes. “Is this new guy the reason you don’t want to go to college?” “Mom, no, that’s not—Dec has a future, he’s headed to West Point in July. This has nothing to do with him,” I protest. “I just don’t want to go to college. I’ve never wanted that, and I’ve never pretended—” “Dec as in Declan?” Jamie interrupts, frowning at me. “The ginger who copped an attitude with Travis at laser tag? Since when are you involved with him? I thought he was straight.” “Yeah, I did, too, until his dick was in my mouth,” I hiss, like that does anything to stop my mom hearing me from three feet away. At least she doesn’t adopt that long-suffering look that Dad always gets when I start talking about my sex life. When Jamie continues to frown at me, I slouch down in my seat and say, “Look, I said I’d apply to schools, and I did, and I got in. Yay me. I’m still not going.” Mom crosses her arms. “Then what do you plan to do after graduation?” I haven’t thought that far ahead yet, is very heavily implied in my silence, but it’s also the wrong thing to say. Even I realize that. When I don’t give an answer, Mom says, “Your father and I can’t force you to go to college. Even if we found a way to make you pick one, even if we paid all the deposits and dropped you off at a dorm come fall, we couldn’t force you to go to class or do your work, so you could flunk out in a semester, if you really dug your heels in.” “Which we all know I would,” I mutter. “Fine. Then you need to get a job,” she says. “A what?” I say, then immediately regret it for the exasperated look she gives me. “A job,” Jamie whispers. “As I understand it, it’s something that most adults are expected to acquire and regularly perform at. It’s how you get money to buy things, when you’ve been a naughty boy and the Trust Fund Fairy doesn’t want to come to your house anymore.” I kick him a few times under the table. “Don’t fucking patronize me. You’ve never had one either.” “And I’m not sure I’ll ever need one, given the amount of money I’ve just inherited,” he says. He’s wearing a tight smile as he says the words, but I can tell that he’s nowhere near ready to be making jokes about his parents’ death. Who would be? My under-the-table kicks turn into a reassuring press of my boot sole to his shin. He presses back. I clear my throat and say, “So, here’s the thing, Mom. I’m not actually qualified for any jobs.” “And of course, refusing to go to college is the best way to remedy that,” she sneers. “You can’t expect your father and I to support you for the rest of your life. We’ve had to fight you enough just to get you to finish high school, and now you don’t want to go into higher education, so you need to find a way to support yourself. After graduation, we’re not going to keep depositing rent and utilities money into your account, if all you’re going to be doing is tooling around New York.” “I don’t know what you expect me to do,” I groan. “I have absolutely no marketable skills. I have no job experience. How do you think I’m going to get hired anywhere? Especially since the economy is like, total shit right now.” “Yes, clearly we are feeling the financial pain,” Jamie says dryly, gesturing once more to the beautiful furnishings of his apartment. “Good Lord, Garen. ‘The economy is total shit right now.’ Like that has had any impact on your lifestyle whatsoever. There could be another stock market crash so abysmal that businessmen start diving out of their windows, and you wouldn’t even know about it.” “I’m pretty sure the bodies strewn all over the sidewalk outside your Upper East Side luxury apartment might clue me in. Don’t pretend you aren’t just as much of a spoiled brat as I am,” I snap. “Besides, you don’t know, I could understand, like… economic things.” “Economic things,” Mom whispers, pinching the bridge of her nose. As a last ditch effort, I try, “Listen, some of my best friends are, uh… poor people.” “I’m fairly certain that McCutcheon would punch you in the throat, if he heard you say that,” Jamie says. “Not as hard as he’d punch you for automatically thinking of him when someone says ‘poor people,’” I say, and Jamie lifts a shoulder, conceding the point. “I have made a huge error somewhere in raising you,” Mom says. “Or at the very least, your father did. William is a goddamn tax accountant. How is it even remotely possible that you are nineteen years old, and yet you still seem to be half-convinced that money grows on trees?” I open my mouth to agree that yes, I am nineteen as of today, because it’s my fucking birthday, which means I shouldn’t be getting lectured, but Mom is on a roll. “I should have insisted you get a job the moment you turned sixteen, but it’s better late than never. Find a job. Learn to support yourself. If you’re enough of an adult to decide to give up the rest of your education, then you’re enough of an adult to support yourself. After graduation, you either start paying your own rent, or you go back to living with your father or me.” I stare at her. “What about my roommate? Travis and I have a lease until July first. If I can’t find a job and you make me come home after I graduate at the end of May, what the fuck is he supposed to do about the June rent? Or the next lease? He still goes to school here, I can’t bail on him. He’d have no one to pay the other half of the rent.” “That would be Travis’ problem,” Mom says. It seems like it pains her to say the words, but not nearly as much as it pains me to hear them. Travis is full-time at both school and work, but he only makes minimum wage, and even though he has saved almost every dime he has made in the past two years, I know he has been hemorrhaging money since he started school. Between tuition, textbooks, the cost of transportation, and half the rent and utilities, he’s barely scraping by. I’m not even sure he’s actually making more money than he’s spending, and every time I hand him my rent check and see him sit down to pay our living costs, his frown looks a little bit deeper. If I stopped paying my half of the rent, he’d have to drop out of school and get another job just to hold things over until he could get a new roommate. Leaving him is not an option. “I’ll get a job,” I promise. “I… I’m not sure what yet, but I’ll find something. I swear.” Mom doesn’t look at all appeased. “Garen, you need to at least consider your options here. Most people your age are hoping to get master’s degrees and PhDs; bachelor’s degrees are all but required for most well-paying jobs these days. Plenty of people don’t go to college, but not people who have gone to boarding schools as prestigious as Patton. Not people who have parents who are willing to foot the tuition bill. You should at least think about it, even if you just try it for a semester.” “Mom,” I sigh. “Garen,” she shoots right back. “I’m your mother. I’ve trusted and supported you through everything, and now, you are going to trust me when I say that this is not a decision you can take lightly. Give it some thought, give it some time, and later, after graduation, you either go to college, or you get a job. One or the other. Do you understand?” I nod and start rereading the letters, like I’m doing as told. It doesn’t matter—my mind is already made up.

198 days sober “Hey, poor people,” I say loudly, throwing myself onto one of the couches in the Whitman common room after Thursday night’s MLEP. “My mom says I’m spoiled and lazy. What’s a job, and how do I get one?” The question is actually enough to draw Javi’s attention away from his cell phone, which is a feat in and of itself, considering he’s texting his girlfriend. “Is that a serious question? You’re nineteen years old. How have you never had a job before?” “Uh, have you seen the car I drive? It’s pretty obvious that I’m a pampered rich kid who lives off my parents’ income,” I point out. “But they’re pissed at me now, ‘cause I told my mom I don’t want to go to college, so Mom says I need to get a job and support myself after high school graduation. Except I don’t know how to get a job.” “It’s really not that hard,” Steven says. “You apply to some places, and when one of them tells you they want to hire you, you go work. That’s it, that’s the total process.” “Do you have a resume?” Sam asks. I snort. “No. I wouldn’t even know what to put on one.” “Prior work experience, extracurricular activities, volunteer work you’ve done,” Javi says, ticking them off on his fingers, but every item he lists is more discouraging than the one before it. “Does turning tricks in public restrooms for drug money count as ‘prior work experience’?” I ask. He raises his eyebrows and shakes his head. “Alright, so, no work experience. Extracurriculars—a semester of marksmanship team, a semester of drama club. That’s… pretty much it. No volunteer work, either.” I sink down into the cushions and cover my face with my hands. “Fuck. I’m totally unemployable, aren’t I?” “Pretty much,” Charlie agrees. Javi elbows him. “Don’t be an ass. G, I’m sure you’ll be able to find something. What about skills? You’ve got to have some sort of skill that’ll set you apart from other people.” I squint up at the ceiling and try to give it some serious consideration, but I’m coming up mostly empty. Finally, I remember, “I speak fluent French.” “Really?” Taylor asks, surprised. “Oui,” I say. “Mais je ne comprends pas comment cela pourrait m'aider à obtenir un emploi.” Silence, and then Steven says, “I only took like, two years of French, so the only part of that I understood was ‘I don’t understand.’ Which is pretty fitting.” “I said I don’t understand how that’s going to help me get a job,” I say. “I mean, maybe I could tutor people? But I bet I’d be really shitty at it. For one, I barely do my homework, let alone other people’s homework. And for another, I’m not exactly a patient person. I’d probably berate the people who hired me until they decided they’d rather fail the class than put up with me.” “I was gonna suggest you could give people music lessons, since you’re good on the guitar,” Javi says, “but if you’d tear somebody a new one for massacring the French language, I don’t even want to think about what you’d do to someone who played guitar badly in front of you. Any other skills you can think of?” There’s an answer floating around in the back of my brain, but it is firmly situated in the region of thoughts that I try my best to ignore. This answer is located in the same space where madness lies, the space that threatens to take over my whole being on a nightly basis. I don’t want to say it. I’m not planning to say it. But my face must be betraying more than I’d like, because the rest of the guys are all watching me expectantly, waiting for me to speak. I clear my throat and say, very carefully, “Bartending?” Charlie winces. Taylor looks away. Javi starts texting Vanessa again. Sam raises his eyebrows. But it’s Steven who says, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, man.” “I know,” I say quickly, “Believe me, I know exactly how stupid that would be. I’ve… you know, handled booze a few times since getting sober, so it’s not like I chug everything in front of me. My parents can have wine at dinner, and my friends can drink at bars without me freaking out. I can be around it, I guess, but I’m not sure I could put up with mixing drink after drink, night after night. I only mentioned it because I can’t think of anything else I’m good at.” “What about something related?” Taylor suggests. “There are bars and clubs all over this area, especially as you get closer to the city. You’re a big guy, and you’d probably look pretty intimidating, if you scowled a little bit more. I bet you could find someplace that would hire you as a bouncer.” Hope sparks up in me. I open my mouth to agree that yeah, I’d be an awesome bouncer, right when Charlie snorts and says, “Garen would be a terrible bouncer.” I frown at him, and he flashes palms towards the ceiling in an apologetic half-shrug. “Sorry, but you would be. You’d get bored of standing in one place all night, so you’d probably fucking wander off somewhere, and you’d let in obviously underage guys, if you thought they were cute enough. You’d get into fights instead of breaking them up. And if you worked at a gay bar, you’d probably spend more time hitting on the go-go boys than actually checking IDs—” “Oh, shit, there’s an idea,” Javi says, perking up and raising his eyes from his phone once more. I can feel my forehead creasing. “What?” “You could be a go-go dude at one of the clubs around here,” he says. “Nessa’s got this friend who works at Rush—” “What’s Rush?” Sam asks. “That club over in the city. You know, the one that has boy and girl dancers.” I tip my head back to stare at the ceiling. I hadn’t remembered the name, but I know the club they’re talking about. Jamie and I used to go there all the time, mostly during our junior year. It’s a cool enough place; the dance floor is huge, but always packed with bodies; the bartenders mix their drinks with twice the amount of liquor any other clubs put in; the staff doesn’t care if people fuck in the bathrooms or VIP lounge; and, as Jamie informed me on more than one occasion, it’s a bisexual person’s wet dream, because it’s one of the only clubs in the area that wants to draw in all queers. Most clubs around here hire cute guys in the hope of bringing in more cute guys, but this place—Rush, I guess—hires an equal number of hot, nearly-naked girls and hot, nearly-naked guys, in the hopes of attracting gay guys, gay girls, and bi kids with pretty much any naughty-bits set-up. It’s a weirdly diverse crowd of people, and it’s almost harder to go home alone than it is to find someone who’s willing to go with you. Steven squints at Javi. “I thought that place was called the Paradise Lounge. I mean, I know it used to be Heaven, and then they had to change the name after they got shut down for serving underage patrons, but I thought that when they reopened, they were called—” “The Paradise Lounge, yeah, but then they had to close for a month because one of their dancers was blowing guys for thirty bucks in the VIP lounge. And when they reopened, they changed the name to—” “Wasn’t it called Oasis at one point?” Taylor says, squinting. “I could’ve sworn I went there a few months ago, but it was called Oasis.” Javi lets out a frustrated groan and says, “Jesus Christ, will you guys shut up? The place closes down every couple of months for something, and then it reopens, and it gets a new name. It was Heaven, and then it was the Paradise Lounge, and then Oasis, and now it’s fucking Rush. They’ll probably get shut down again in another few weeks and give it another name, but it doesn’t matter. The point is, my girl’s got a friend who works there, and they’re pretty much always hiring new people. Guess they like to keep the eye candy fresh, or whatever. But Vanessa told me the guy makes bank. I’m talking like, a grand in a weekend.” My eyebrows shoot up. “A grand in a weekend for what? Taking his clothes off and shaking his ass around? That’s insane. Travis and I put up four grand a month for our house, including utilities and everything, and you’re telling me that if he and I both just stripped down and danced on a bar for one night each weekend, we could cover our entire rent from that alone?” “I mean, I don’t know the details of it,” Javi hedges. “I’m sure it’s harder than it sounds, or else everyone would do it. You’ve gotta socialize a lot—” “I am totally sociable,” I interrupt. “And you’ve gotta be in great shape—” “Fuck you, man, I am in great shape. Have you seen my abs?” I demand, untucking my shirt and yanking the hem up to expose my stomach. I tighten my muscles and run my hand over the ridges just for show. “I know you’re not into dudes, but come on, that is a nice six-pack. Taylor, you like dick. Tell the guys how hot I am.” Taylor gives me an unamused look and says, “You’re not really my type, but yeah, you’re hot. Sure.” Bowl me over with his fucking enthusiasm, why doesn’t he? I glare at him, shove my shirt back down and say, “I could do it. I mean, I’d basically be getting paid to take off all my clothes, dance around, flirt with random guys, and get attention. That’s what I like to do on weekends anyway. Plus, I’d be in a club, but I wouldn’t have to handle the liquor. Mixing or serving. I’d be fine.” Javi shrugs. “If you want to try it out, I say go for it. If you end up hating it, just quit and find something else. I can ask Vanessa to find out more about the audition process from her friend. Or at least, I can find out if the guy has any tips for you or whatever.” “No,” I say, digging my phone out of my pocket and opening up a new text screen, “I’ve got a friend who does some, uh… dance work, I guess we’ll call it. I can get advice from her.” I have no idea how to word the message, though. Eventually, I decide on, my mom wants me to get a job & i want to get back at her for that. have decided to become a gogo boy @ a slutty queer club in the city, have no idea what it takes to get this kind of gig. apparently there’s an audition of some sort? help me, stripper wan kenobi, youre my only hope. It only takes two minutes of waiting before Stohler calls, already sighing down the line at me before I can even say hello. “Do I even need to berate you for how fucking retarded it is that you’ve decided to become a go-go dancer in order to get back at your mommy for making you get a job at nineteen years old? Or can we just agree that the insults go without saying?” “If they go without saying, then stop saying them, you vicious, bleach-blond cunt,” I say, and Sam does a double take at my words. I wave him off and mouth, it’s fine, she deserves it. “Excuse you, assfucker, this is my natural color,” Stohler sniffs. “And if you want my help, you could try being nice to me.” I roll my eyes and slouch down in my seat. “Please, oh pretty please, Stohls, light of my life, loveliest stripper in all the land,” I say. “Come on. I already know a guy who knows a guy, so finding a club isn’t the problem. And I know I’m hot enough to get a job, I know how to dance. I just don’t know—there’s got to be some tricks I don’t know about, yeah? The guys I see at most clubs are twinks, and that’s definitely not a look that works for me. So, do you think you could help me figure out something that I can do that would help me get a job like this?” Stohler is incredibly silent for so long, I take the phone away from my ear to make sure the call hasn’t dropped. I say her name once, just to make sure she’s there, and finally, she says, quietly, “I can help you, if that’s what you really want. This weekend, when you come here, I can take you shopping for the kinds of clothes you’ll need, tell you some of the tricks you’ll want to know before you start a job, maybe teach you some moves or lines. Whatever you need, I can do that. But…” She stops to sigh. I swallow. “But what?” “Working in this industry isn’t always easy, you understand? And the second you take your clothes off for money, you’re in adult entertainment, whether you’re a stripper or a go-go dancer or a porn star. It’s all sex work. And people… they treat you differently. They see you differently, and if you’re not careful, you start to see yourself differently, too. You need to be prepared for that, or else you’re just setting yourself up to burn out, and I don’t want to be responsible for that. You’re my… friend.” She still says the word like it tastes weird in her mouth. “I don’t want you to end up losing your mind over this kind of thing. A lot of people like it. It can be fun work, and the money can be awesome, and it can be all sorts of liberating, or whatever bullshit you wanna say like that. But it can be hard, too. You need to know that before you go into it.” It’s strange—I haven’t heard her talk this way in months, not since that night last fall when she had to defend herself against the girls in the LHS drama club. I still remember how dark her eyes were when she stared up at the glowing sign of the club she works at afterward, but she hasn’t talked about her job with anything other than a smirk since then. I guess I’d forgotten. “I think I’ll be okay,” I say quietly. “I can handle it, Stohls. Especially with your help.” I don’t mean to sound like a manipulative douche, but I guess it works out that way, because Stohler heaves another huge sigh and says, “They’ll probably have submit an application before they’ll give you an audition. You’ll need headshots for that… probably full-body pics, too. Wait until next week to do that, though. Bring your credit card this weekend, and I’ll take you for some clothes and help you get the whole look going. And the pictures you take have to be high-quality, not some camera-phone selfie bullshit. Find somebody with a nice digital camera to take them for you in front of a plain backdrop. I’ve got a portfolio of mine that I can show you this weekend as a reference, if you think you can handle looking at barely-clothed photos of a woman without crying.” “I’ll do my best to contain the horror,” I assure her. “Thanks, Stohler. You’re the best.” “I know,” she says, and hangs up on me. What a bitch, I think fondly. I toss my phone back onto the couch next to me and announce, “My friend says I need to have a porn portfolio in order to get hired anywhere.” I’m maybe paraphrasing a bit. “Headshots, pictures of my—” I make a vague gesture, “—body, or whatever. Apparently, I need to prove my hotness in order to even get a chance to prove I’ve got the personality for this. But these pictures have be, like, quality.” I twist sideways to kick my legs over the arm of the couch. “How badly do you think my parents would want to kill me, if I used ‘getting a job’ as an excuse to charge a thousand-dollar camera to the credit card they pay for?” “They wouldn’t want to kill you. They would kill you. And they’d be justified,” Taylor says. “Don’t buy a brand new camera for the sake of using it once. Borrow one from somebody.” “I don’t know anyone who has one,” I point out. Javi doesn’t even look up from his phone as he says, “Dec has one he might let you use. Photography’s pretty much his only hobby.” “That, and feasting on the flesh of the innocent,” Charlie says with a shrug. “And running that stupid fucking obstacle course,” Steven adds. “Is that where he is now?” I ask, and I’m answered with a few nods. “If I asked really nicely—” and maybe offered to suck him off again, “—do you think he’d let me borrow his camera? Just for an afternoon.” Sam chuckles. “Probably not, but it can’t hurt to ask. Can you wait here and ask once he gets back from the course instead of going there now, though? He’ll be coming back to shower before dinner soon enough, and I want to see the look on his face when you ask to borrow his thousand-dollar camera to take naked pictures of yourself.” I’m sure that he’ll make the same cocked-eyebrow, twisted-smirk expression he does whenever I do anything, but there’s no point in getting up so that I can hunt him down and make him deny my request in private. Besides, I can already hear tired, dragging footsteps coming up the stairs just outside the common room. “Yo, Campbell!” I call. “What?” he calls back. I don’t answer until he makes it to the landing, but I immediately wish I hadn’t. He has obviously been working hard outside—his freckled cheeks are flushed from exertion, he’s still panting, and there’s a sheen of sweat all over his skin. He frowns down at his dirty t-shirt until he finds a spot that’s clean enough to lift up and wipe his face. The hard, muscular rides of his stomach are sweaty, too, and all I want is to get down on my knees and taste the salt on his skin. He pauses with his shirt still pressed to his face, then peeks over the top of it at me, catching sight of my hungry stare. He smirks and lets the shirt fall back into place. “What’s up?” “I’m in need of a few hours’ use of a decent camera, and I heard you happen to own one. I was hoping you might let me borrow it for an afternoon next week,” I say. “What for?” he asks. Sam claps me on the shoulder. “Garen here needs to get a job, and after much contemplation, we’ve come to the conclusion that he’s not qualified for anything other than sex work. He wants to borrow your camera so that he can take some skin pics to score an audition as a go-go boy at a gay bar.” I stomp hard on his foot in retribution for ruining any chance I had at making this seem like a not-weird thing to ask for. On first glance, I think that Declan is giving me exactly the sort of amused, judgmental stare everyone had expected—god knows they’re all giggling enough—but when I really bother to meet his eyes, I see something a bit… hotter in his gaze. Like he’s really thinking about it. Picturing it, maybe. Figuring a bit of flattery can’t hurt my case, I hitch my chin towards his messy clothes and ask, “Have you gotten any closer to beating that eight forty-four course record? You managed a nine fifty-eight last time I was out there, didn’t you?” “You remembered,” he says, giving me an pleased sort of look that makes me feel like I’m a puppy. “Best time today was a nine thirty-two. I got it down to nine twenty last week, but fuck if I’m ever going to manage that again.” I scoff. “You will. If you keep training at the rate you have been, I bet you’ll be able to clear the eight forty-four before the month of April is over.” “You think so?” Declan says. Most people would sound hopeful when saying something like that, but he doesn’t. He sounds more… approving, like he’d already come to that conclusion on his own, but is glad to see that I’m smart enough to know the same. Regardless, it gets me the reply, “I don’t care what you want to take pictures of. Half the photos I’ve taken have been of sluts from Ward, so if Sam’s trying to unnerve me by saying you want it for amateur porn, he’s failing. But I don’t let anyone else touch my camera.” I affect an exaggerated pout. “Come on, man. I promise I won’t break it.” “You can’t promise me anything even close to that,” Declan argues. “You’re a fucking spazz, and everyone knows it. You won’t be able to take a single picture before you accidentally smash it. That camera’s one of the only nice things I own, next to my truck and my gun.” “Your prized possessions are your truck and your gun,” Charlie mutters. “God, you become more and more of a flyover-state stereotype every time you open your mouth.” “Your prized possessions are your truck and your gun,” I echo, in something close to a purr. “God, that’s so hot. If the truck breaks down, do you do the mechanical labor yourself? Maybe in like, a white tank top that gets all sweaty and dirty? You know, my Ferrari needs an oil change—” “Keep it in your pants, Anderson,” Declan says. I open my mouth to say, That’s not what you said last Friday, but at last minute, I remember just how pissed he’d be if I actually said that in front of anyone, especially considering we’ve done a whole hell of a lot of not talking about that night since it happened. I press my lips together to keep the words in. Dec is still watching me in silence, waiting to be sure that I can keep my mouth shut like a good boy. When I don’t say anything, he gives me another of those pleased half-smiles. I guess I must deserve some kind of reward, because he says, “I don’t let people touch my camera, but that doesn’t mean I mind you using it for your pictures. On Monday, I’ll go to the art department and see if I can borrow some backdrops and lighting equipment, and then I’ll come by your place and take whatever pictures you need. I can give you everything on a flash drive after.” Sam’s forehead wrinkles. “Wait, you’re going to take the pictures for him?” I look around at him. “Sorry, is this conversation not fun for you if I’m actually getting what I want?” “No, this conversation became weird for me the second Declan offered to take naked pictures of you,” he says. “They’re not going to be naked pictures, you asshole,” I sigh. “I’m going to be wearing at least a little bit of clothing—” I don’t mean to stop talking, but when I glance at Declan again, he’s wearing a look that makes me think I’m probably not going to be wearing anything at all. I swallow, but my throat is dry. Declan smiles—all teeth—and says, “Of course you are. I’m going to go clean up before dinner.” “I’m gonna head home. See you guys tomorrow,” I blurt out, and I head for the door, because there isn’t a chance in hell I can pretend I’m not already picturing him in the shower.

200 days sober The moment Jamie shows up at the house to drive me back to Connecticut, things get a little weird. This is mostly due to the fact that it’s the first time he and Travis have seen each other in two weeks, so I’m caught in the middle of their strangely emotional reunion. There’s hugging. Hugging that turns into a quiet exchange of condolence and gratitude. It’s not like I’ve forgotten that they’re friends now, that they have class together and grab meals afterward a few times a week. It’s not like Jamie hasn’t mentioned that he sometimes brings his textbooks to Starbucks during Travis’ shifts so that he can sit at the drink bar and harass Trav while he works. It’s not like I don’t know that Travis sometimes calls Jamie for answer comparison on their homework, only to end up doing half the assignment together over the phone. It’s just that seeing their friendship in action like this has left me feeling oddly… replaced. And I’m not even sure by whom. “We should hit the road,” I say quietly. “Right. Don’t want to be late for your session, Travis says, stepping back. “I should go get started on my econ problems.” Jamie’s brow creases. “Aren’t you working today?” Travis shakes his head. “Day off.” The comment is enough to give me pause. I hate leaving Travis alone in the house these days. His new shrink—the one Doc recommended—has him coming in for sessions every two weeks while they try to scale back his SSRI dosage, but he’s still taking way more medication than I’m comfortable with. Sometimes, I come down to the living room at night and find him half-conscious, mechanically petting the dog and staring blankly at the TV because he’s too exhausted to do anything else. I’m not as terrified of finding his corpse as I used to be, but I’m still uneasy about abandoning him here today. Jamie lingers in front of the door, his hand on the doorknob. He tips his head to the side and asks, “How long has it been since you spoke to your mother?” Travis stiffens. I can tell he wants to say, none of your fucking business, but having dead parents seems to have made other people’s parents a lot more important to Jamie. He eventually answers, “The day I moved out. New Year’s Eve. So, about three months.” “And your father?” Jamie presses. Travis rubs a palm over his face and sighs, “Christ, I don’t know. Right after my mom and Garen’s dad got engaged, I think? That was, what, sixteen months ago?” “I thought you said you were going to get back in contact with him,” I say. “It was your New Year’s resolution.” “Yeah, and yours was to quit smoking, but I bet you’ve got a pack of cigarettes in your pocket right now,” he shoots back. “It’s not a big deal. I’m fine without—” “Come with us,” Jamie interrupts. “Garen needs to go to Lakewood for his session, anyway. That’s nearly an hour. We’ll drop him off, and you can go see your mother, have a quick conversation, and we’ll pick G up once his session is over.” Travis stares at him, and I can’t help but do the same. I don’t understand why he’s suggesting this. Yeah, I get that he just lost his own parents, so maybe he’s into the idea of everyone else spending as much time with theirs as possible, but it’s different with Travis’ family. Evelyn is pure evil, and she doesn’t give a shit about Travis—I try to tell him otherwise, I try to convince him that he is loved and appreciated, and he is, but by me. Not by his mom, the selfish, psychotic cunt. Travis turns to me and says, voice soft, “What do you think, Garen?” All at once, any argument I have about Evelyn evaporates from my throat. Travis looks so young, so lonely that I can’t bear to be the one who finally admits that no, his mom doesn’t love him anymore. I shove my hands into my pockets and say, “If you want to see her, yeah. You should come. I think it’d be good for you two to have a chance to work things out.” Slowly, Travis nods and stands. “Yeah. Okay, that’s—just let me get my coat.” “Change of clothes and shit, too,” I call after him as he heads for the stairs. “We’re going to be spending the night at my dad’s house.” “Travis and I, making a Garen sandwich,” Jamie says fondly. “To be perfectly honest, I feel as if the past year and a half of my life has been leading up to this very night—” “Are you fucking kidding me with this idea?” I interrupt, trying to keep my voice low so Travis won’t hear from his room. Jamie blinks, and I continue, “His mom’s a bitch. She doesn’t give a fuck about him, and she won’t hesitate to tell him that to his face. She’s going to reject him, probably won’t even answer the fucking door once she looks out the window and sees it’s him. He’s going to be devastated.” Jamie crosses his arms. “Not as devastated as he would be if he didn’t at least try to make things right with her now, while he still has a chance.” Just because your parents died, doesn’t mean his are about to, I want to say, but I don’t dare. There are some words I know I could never take back. Instead, I throw him another glare and wait in silence for Travis to return, old LHS track duffel slung over his shoulder. When we get outside, Travis gestures to his Subaru. “Do you think maybe I could drive? I’ll drive us to the LRC, and then I’ll bring you guys to New Haven before I go back to Lakewood to see my mom. I just—if it goes well, I’m not sure the forty-five minutes Garen’s in session will be enough, and if it doesn’t go well, I’d like a getaway car. If that’s okay.” “Of course it’s okay,” Jamie says. There isn’t a person alive who could fault Travis for his slow, careful driving. I let Jamie ride shotgun. I think I’m supposed to be using these additional sessions to discuss how I feel about Melissa and George’s deaths, but today’s session goes a little off the rails the moment I say to Doc, “I’m pretty sure I’m about to join the adult entertainment industry.” She blinks at me over the lip of her coffee mug. After a moment, she carefully sets it down on her desk, closes her eyes, and opens them. “Please explain.” “My mom wants me to get a job, except my only real talents are physical,” I say. “My friend Javi’s going out with this girl, Vanessa, and she—I talked to her yesterday, when she came to visit him after MLEP. She’s got this friend, Paul, and he’s a go-go dancer at this club in the city. He talked to his bosses, and if I pass along a portfolio of my pictures and they think I’m hot enough—which, let’s be honest, they will—then they’ll meet with me. And if I can manage to smile pretty and keep my fucking smartass comments to myself for long enough to seem charming, I get hired.” “As a go-go dancer,” Doc clarifies. “Yeah,” I say. “Paul said he thinks they’re looking for, uh… guys to work in the cages?” “So, not as a go-go dancer,” Doc says. “A cage dancer.” I roll my eyes and say, “Dude, a cage dancer is a go-go dancer, just in a cage. It’s the same thing. It’s still just stripping down to your underwear and dancing around for cash.” “And you think that this is something you’d enjoy doing?” Doc… says? Asks? I’m not too sure. I shrug. She says, in a pseudo-neutral tone of voice, “It wasn’t too long ago that you had trouble being on the receiving end of any physical contact whatsoever. It took a lot of work for you to be comfortable with even your closest friends touching you—James, Ben, Travis. They all had to work their way up to it. If you’re working as a go-go dancer, you’ll be making some of your money through tips, and that often involves a certain degree of physical contact. Is that something you’re prepared for?” I cross my arms and say stubbornly, “Yes. Look, I know I used to have a lot of problems with being, uh… being touched, but it’s not like that anymore. I can handle it. I can touch whoever I want, I can fuck whoever I want. It was a problem, but I’m okay now. I’m good.” “You weren’t bad before,” Doc says gently. “It’s not unusual for someone who has had your experiences to be uncomfortable with physical—” “Yeah, well, Law & Order: Special Rape Unit tells me that it’s not unusual for someone who has had my experiences to end up a sex worker, either,” I say flatly. Doc’s mouth presses into a thin line, which either means I’m dead wrong, or I’m dead on. I continue, “Pretty sure I saw this exact episode. Some dude gets held down and fucked a couple times when he’s fifteen, and a few years later, he’s an addict who rents his body out to anybody who wants to play with it. Isn’t that what everyone says? That everybody in that industry is some junkie who got fucked as a kid? Dancers, strippers, porn stars, fetish models, all of ‘em. I don’t get why you’re surprised—the last four years of my life seem to have been leading up to this exact career choice.” “It is a choice, Garen. You recognize that, right?” Doc says. “You have a choice in this matter. You can choose to go forward with this plan of becoming a dancer, or you can choose to find a different job option. And even if you do take the job, you reserve the right to choose to end your employment at any time, or to stop someone who is trying to make you go further than you want to.” I snort. “Pretty sure I forfeit that right once they put the cash in my hand. At that point, I’ve just got to fulfill my end of the bargain.” “No, you don’t,” Doc says. “No one can buy the right to make you unhappy.” Maybe not, but it sure as hell feels like people are taking turns at renting it. By the time my session’s over and I’m packed into the backseat of the Subaru on the way to New Haven, Travis is nervous to the point of being annoying. He keeps drumming his hands on the steering wheel at every stoplight, gnawing on his fingernails, bouncing the foot that’s not working the pedals. By the time he pulls up in front of Alex and Ben’s building, I’m ready to strangle him. Instead, I unbuckle and lean up between the seats to kiss him on the cheek. “Good luck with—” that fucking poisonous, frigid bitch you clawed your way out of eighteen years ago, “—your mom. Call me when you’re done. I’ll probably still be out with Stohler and Alex, and Jamie will be—” “Here, probably,” Jamie says, indicating the apartment building. “I’m not entirely sure what—” He stops speaking abruptly, frowning, and I can’t hold back a snort. “Sorry, dude, what was that sentence going to be? You’re not entirely sure what… Ben will want to do? That’s so adorable, I didn’t realize you guys were at the point in your relationship where you made all your plans based on what the other wants. Oh wait, maybe that’s because you’re not actually in a relationship.” “Maybe they will be, if you fucking leave them alone for five minutes and let them handle this on their own,” Travis points out. I make a face at him. There’s a sudden rap of knuckles on Jamie’s window, and all three of us jump. “Get out of the damn car, boys. You can suck each other off later,” Stohler demands. She ducks down to peer into the car, giving all of us a thoroughly unnecessary look down the neckline of her baggy black t-shirt at her neon green bra. I pop open my door and press a hand to her top, flattening it to her collarbone. “Cover yourself, I don’t need to see your girl parts.” She snorts. “Kid, please. You and I are about to get a lot more personal with each other, if you really want the full hoochie makeover. You have a twelve-thirty appointment with Nataliya.” “Who’s Nataliya?” I ask. “The woman who waxes my kitty,” Stohler says, flashing her dimples at me. I feel all the blood draining from my face; it’s an awful, cold sensation. “The woman who—hang on, I have an appointment? I don’t—why do I have an appointment with your waxer? Or, with any waxer, actually. What the fuck do you think I’m going to wax?” “Anything I say,” Stohler says, narrowing her eyes at me. “I’ve got eyebrows, eyelashes, and a fucking ponytail. That’s it—there isn’t a single other hair on my body. Now, I might let you keep a little bit of your happy trail, because that’ll get you some extra tips from guys who like more masculinity, but—” “Hey, you know what’s super masculine?” I interrupt. “All the rest of my body hair, too. Not just the happy trail.” “No, it’s inconvenient,” she snaps. “Have you ever seen a go-go boy with hair under his arms? Or on his legs? Or—” “I am not going to wax my fucking legs!” I burst out, and I can hear Travis and Jamie both laughing at me from inside the car. “Jesus Christ, do you seriously expect me to be bald from the neck down?” Stohler crosses her arms. “No. You can keep the hair you’ve got on your forearms. But everything else is going to be removed, if you expect my help with any of this.” “G, you’re making a pretty big fuss about the leg hair,” Travis says as he gets out of the car on the far side. “If I were you, I’d be more concerned about your junk.” Jamie finally gets out of the car and shuts the door, leaning his hip against it. “It only hurts the first time. You get used to it.” “That’s a lie,” Stohler says to me. “He’s trying to make you feel better, but it’s bullshit. Waxing hurts every time, and you will never get used to it.” “I was trying to help you calm him down, but fine, have it your way,” Jamie sighs. Stohler points one long, manicured nail right in my face and says, “If you aren’t man enough to have a complete stranger pour hot wax all over your genitals and then rip the hair out at the roots with a strip of fabric, then you’re not man enough to be a go-go dancer.” I turn to look at Travis. “Dude. I don’t think I’m man enough to be a go-go dancer.” “I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” says a voice above our heads. In unison, we all look up. Ben is leaning partway out his bedroom window, forearms folded on the sill. “That whole ‘hot wax on the genitals’ thing sounds kind of fun to me.” “That’s the spirit, munchkin,” Stohler says, throwing her hands up in celebration. “Do you want to join the industry, too?” “Are you fucking kidding me? I’m half-Italian, which means that I, unlike the people you’re standing with, have more body hair than a fucking twelve-year-old. I don’t care how long that appointment you booked for Garen is; it’s not long enough for me,” Ben says. “Also, can you guys come inside now? Because you’re kind of standing outside my apartment building, screaming about Garen’s balls. I had the window closed and was listening to music, and I could still hear you.” “We’ll be up in a min—oh,” I say, blinking in surprise as Jamie steals my keys out of my jacket pocket and strides away to let himself into the building. “Okay, then. I guess we’ll be up right now.” Ben’s face does something weird, like he might be daring to let himself have an emotional reaction to that. His upper half disappears back into his bedroom, and he slams the window shut. Stohler heaves an incredible, put-upon sigh and slinks off to the front door. I turn to face Travis again. “Good luck with Ev. I’ll see you later, yeah?” He nods and gets back into his car, and I chase after the others. Or, I try to. Stohler is standing in the entryway, arms crossed over her chest as she glares down at the intercom. “James didn’t even stick around to hold the fucking door, and Ben’s not buzzing me into the fucking building.” “You mean, we’re stuck down here until they stop groping each other long enough to remember that there are other people around?” I say. She pulls her phone out of her purse and starts tapping away at it. “I’m going to text Alex and tell him to get his stoner ass out of his room and hit the door unlock. And if he comes to investigate and finds those two fuckwads molesting each other in the stairwell, it’ll serve them right.” A minute passes, and then the speaker above the buttons screeches before Alex’s confused voice comes through. “Yo, where the hell is my roommate?” “I don’t know where his body is, but his head is definitely up his own ass,” Stohler says. “Let us in. Now.” The door clicks unlocked, and I slip through it, taking the stairs two at a time until I have to skid to a stop to avoid crashing into Jamie. Who is frozen on the stairs. And alone. “Seriously?” I say, snatching my keys out of his hand. “Are you hiding in the stairwell so you don’t have to talk to itty bitty Benjamin? After you practically sprinted in here?” “Shut up,” Jamie hisses. “I got halfway up here before I remembered that the last time I spoke to him, he told me he likes me.” “Wow,” I say solemnly, “I hope you don’t catch cooties.” “At this point, he should be more concerned about catching chlamydia,” Stohler says from just behind me. “Unless my chart is wrong, the only people in this group who haven’t fucked around are Alex and Ben—” “James and Travis,” I add absently. “—and me with anyone. The instant one of you catches something, all of you are doomed.” I twist to look at her. “Yeah, but don’t you feel a little bit left out? We’ve got three bi dudes in this group, I’m sure you could convince one of them to go for it. I mean, Travis is off-limits, ‘cause I’m trying to keep the number of non-me people he has sex with to a bare minimum, but I bet Al would be down. I’m not sure he’s even full-on fucked a chick yet, though.” “Yes, he has.” I glance to the top of the stairs, where Ben is lingering awkwardly, his eyes fixed on Jamie even as he addresses me. “He’s hooking up with this girl from his biology class. Her name’s Erika. She comes over a few nights a week, and they have incredibly loud sex on the other side of my bedroom wall. It’s obnoxious enough to make me miss the days when it was Goldwyn in that room.” “That’s a strange thing to reminisce over, given that I’m not exactly quiet in bed, either,” Jamie says. Ben tips sideways just enough to lean his temple against the wall. A hint of a wry smile is playing at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve noticed that, thanks. But at least being stuck listening to you beg for someone to fuck you is kind of sexy.” Jamie takes step after careful step up the stairs until he’s standing just two steps down from Ben. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen them exactly eye to eye. “Hello,” he says. “Hi,” Ben says. “How are you?” I grab Stohler by the wrist and pull her the rest of the way up the stairs and down the hall to the apartment. The door is barely shut, and when I push it the rest of the way open, Alex is frowning around the kitchen. “Seriously, Ben was here like, two minutes ago.” “I think he had to get something from his car. We passed him on the stairs,” Stohler says dismissively. “Hurry up and get your coat. I don’t want to be late.” Alex makes a point of taking his time tying his shoes and collecting his jacket, wallet, and keys. Stohler looks ready to punch him by the time the door opens again and Jamie and Ben step in. Alex blinks, surprised. “James. Hey.” “Hello, Alexander,” Jamie returns. “Hope you’ve been doing well since I last saw you.” Alex shrugs, a sad half-smile on his face. “Better than you, from what I understand. I was sorry to hear about your parents.” I’m prepared to steer Alex and Stohler right out of the apartment to end this talk before it begins, but Jamie inclines his head a few inches and says, “Thank you,” like he’s been saying for weeks. Alex frowns and gestures to the door. “Are you coming along to watch the go-go makeover?” Jamie shakes his head and clears his throat. “Actually, I thought I might stay here a minute.” Alex’s brow creases. “What, with Ben?” “Say it again, but this time, try for even more baffled disdain,” Ben says. “Sorry, I just didn’t realize that you guys had crossed over from the territory of ‘tolerating each other for the sake of your mutual friends’ to that of ‘being friendly enough to hang out alone together without it ending in bloodshed,’” Alex says. “But that’s cool, I guess. Better than the constant bitching, yeah?” “Um,” is all Ben says, while Jamie remains silent. Alex notices nothing; he nods to me and says, “Hurry up, guys. Garen’s going to be late for his appointment.” “I hope you slam your dick in the dishwasher someday,” Stohler says. “Why would I have my dick in the dishwasher in the first place?” Alex asks, leading the way out of the apartment. Having my dick slammed in a dishwasher door seems like it would be a lot more fun than this waxing appointment. Nataliya the waxer gives exactly zero fucks about my personal comfort, on both a physical level and a psychological one. She smells like cigarettes and cocoa butter, and her response to Stohler’s introduction of me is to say, “Nice to meet you. Strip.” “Uh,” I say, glancing around the tiny room where the torture is about to take place. Stohler and Nataliya are standing side by side, like hair removal should be a group activity, and Alex is sitting on a metal folding chair against the wall, grinning at me and recording my face with his cell phone; neither of the women seems to notice or care. I wince and say, “Does there need to be a full house for this?” “I want to oversee the proceedings,” Stohler says simply. “I told you, I’m still not sure about the happy trail, so I’m going to stick around, see how things go, and decide at the end.” “I just want to get a video of you crying when she does your pubes,” Alex clarifies. “I’m gonna put it on YouTube and see how many likes it gets in the first twenty-four hours.” I kick off my boots and strip off my shirt. “Probably at least a hundred. I’ve got a lot of people who hate me.” “Don’t worry. We start small,” Nataliya assures me. Nataliya, it turns out, is a lying whore. Starting small involves having me lie down on a padded table, slopping warm wax onto my pits, and tearing out all of the hair in one go. I let out an awful noise that’s like a yelp-whimper hybrid, and Alex laughs. Stohler just slaps my stomach and orders, “Stop being a baby. Take your pants off.” “I don’t want to,” I whine. “It’s fine, I’ll be a hairy-legged go-go dancer. I’ll start a new trend.” “If you don’t do what I say, you’re never going to get hired,” Stohler says. “It’s not enough to have a cute face and a nice body, alright? If you want to have steady work in entertainment, you’ve got to have a look. You’ve got to be properly groomed, and wearing the right clothes, and acting the right way, and saying the right things. If you’re not willing to lose the hair and adopt the swagger you need, then you’re never going to find anyone willing to take you on. Either take off your fucking pants, or find a plan B.” But there is no plan B. There’s only one thing I’m sure of—one thing I gathered from the other day’s conversation with my Patton boys, one thing Dave told me over and over when we were dating, one thing I learned while turning tricks in bathroom stalls and truck stops so I could get high—and that’s that my body and the things it can do are all I’m good for. I take off the rest of my clothing and lie back down on the table. Alex starts filming again, and I roll my eyes. “Knock it off, Al. I’m not going to fucking cry,” I snap. I’m wrong. I cry. I cry a lot. So does Alex, from how hard he’s laughing; he has to stop filming because he can’t even stay upright. Getting my legs done is bad enough, but by the time Nataliya moves on to my groin, I’m just chewing on my knuckles to stop myself from making more sound. When the time comes to determine the fate of the thin trail of hair just below my navel, Stohler oh so generously decides I can keep it. I don’t even care anymore. My pain receptors must have peaced the fuck out or something, because I don’t think I can feel anything below my ribcage. To add insult to intense, mind-blowing injury, the total price ends up being more than two hundred dollars. Alex laughs so hard he has to go outside by himself, but Stohler doesn’t look fazed, so I’m guessing this isn’t out of the ordinary. I shove my credit card at the receptionist and tell Stohler, “I’m never going to forgive you for this. But at least it’s over with, and I don’t have to—” “Would you like to book your next appointment now?” the receptionist chirps. I stare at her. “Would I like to what?” “Book your next appointment now. You’ll need to come back in about four weeks for another session, and Nataliya’s schedule fills up pretty quickly,” she says, smiling and clacking away at her keyboard. “I can schedule you for the same time on April twenty-eighth.” “Nope,” I say, shaking my head so viciously from side to side that I’m starting to get a headache. “Nope, no, I thought this was a one-time thing. All the hair was just ripped out of my body, why the fuck do I—” “It’s going to grow back, dumbass,” Stohler sighs. She smiles at the receptionist and says, “I think we’ll hold off on a second appointment for now. He’ll call when he’s ready to book again. Thank you!” The moment she drags me outside, she promises me, “When it starts to grow back, you can just shave, okay? You don’t have to do it again.” Alex is leaning against the side of the building and talking on his cell phone, but he springs upright as we approach. “Hang on, they just got outside. You wanna talk to him?” I hear him say. A beat passes during the response, and he holds out his phone to me, saying, “It’s Travis. He tried to call you a few times, but I guess your phone—” “—is in your car,” I say. I take the phone and say, “Hey, Trav. What’s up?” “Nothing, I, um…” Travis clears his throat, but his voice still cracks when he says, “So, the talk with my mom didn’t really go as planned. Do you think I could just come back to New Haven and meet up with you guys?” I press a hand to my free ear to try to block out the noise of traffic passing me, like somehow I think being able to hear his choked breathing will help either one of us. “What happened? Did she refuse to talk?” “No, she talked to me,” Travis says. “It’s just what she said that’s bothering me. I don’t want—it didn’t work out. It’s… we’re not okay. We’re never going to be okay, and I don’t want to try anymore. Please, can I just come meet you guys?” “Yeah, definitely,” I say. My heart is beating double-time in my chest; I ache just from hearing him sound this broken. I turn and say, “Hey, Stohls. Travis is coming back from Lakewood now, but I don’t know what’s on the agenda. Where should he meet us?” She steals the phone from me and gives him an address, hanging up before I get a chance to say goodbye; I pretend not to be pissed about that. The address in question turns out to be a sex shop. Or, as Stohler warns me, “The staff here get ripshit if you call it a sex shop, so if you think any of them are in earshot, make sure you call it an adult boutique.” “What are we supposed to be looking for, anyway?” Alex asks. He hooks a finger under the strap of a shiny purple man-thong and spins it around in the air. “Something like this?” Stohler snatches it out of his hand and tosses it back onto the display. “No. Most nightclubs won’t let their dancers wear thongs because of the laws about indecent exposure. We’re looking for briefs and booty shorts, things like that. Form-fitting enough to show off what you’re working with, and thick enough to support a little extra weight; if the material is too thin, your tips will fall out, and you’ll lose all your cash when you’re dancing.” “What a shame,” I say. “I’d really been hoping I’d have a chance to parade around a New York City nightclub in nothing but a flimsy g-string. If I were really lucky, maybe I could have a ball come poppin’ out of it.” “A perfectly hairless ball, now,” Alex adds. “Uh,” says a voice behind me. I turn. Travis has arrived, and he’s staring at me with wide, still eyes. “When I said I wanted to meet you guys, I didn’t realize that you were standing in the middle of a sex shop—” “Adult boutique,” a bored cashier corrects from behind the counter, where he’s reading an old issue of Rolling Stone. “—standing in the middle of an adult boutique, talking about Garen’s freshly-waxed nutsack,” Travis finishes. I hook a thumb over my belt buckle and offer, “Wanna see?” The corner of his mouth twitches. “I’m good, thanks.” I frown. “Dude, do you realize you haven’t blinked once since walking into this store?” “I’m afraid to look anywhere but directly at your face,” he admits. “I’m trying very hard to pretend that there isn’t a display of anal beads behind you.” Stohler snickers. “Christ, he’s even more adorably flustered than Ben was when I brought him in for a pre-Lenten shopping spree. Speaking of which—” She pauses, glances at Alex, and shoves him in the direction of another rack of men’s shorts. “Al, go see if there’s anything over there that Garen would look good in.” Alex wanders away, muttering something about how you put your dick in a dude one time and then everybody expects you to know what kind of booty shorts he should buy. Stohler continues, in a somewhat quieter voice, “Speaking of the Lent thing, why did James stay at the apartment with Ben? Easter isn’t until next Sunday, so it’s not like they can pound it out this afternoon.” “I think they’re mostly going to talk about their feelings,” I say. “That’s a thing they do now?” Stohler says. I nod; we wrinkle our noses at each other. Travis snorts and goes over to help Alex sort through the clothing. This is probably my only chance to find out what happened with Ev without putting too much pressure on Travis. I steal Stohler’s cell phone and text Alex, find out what happened w/ his mom. Alex reads the text, then blinks over his shoulder at me. I gesture towards Travis. Alex rolls his eyes and reluctantly inclines his head to strike up a conversation. Stohler continues to load my arms up with different outfits she says I’ll look decent in—mostly black like the rest of my wardrobe, but some red, some white, some neon colors I know I’ll never touch—and she mentions—in a bizarrely off-hand sort of way—that I should think about getting a cock ring, because most dancers like to increase the amount of tips they get by sporting a semi, but it’s difficult to keep it up all night without some sort of assistance. From the way she says it, a lot of guys’ assistance means drugs, but that’s not an option for me, so… I get a cock ring. “This is so much shit,” I say, staring down at everything I’m holding. “You look like you should have some sort of superhero utility belt,” Stohler agrees. “Like Batman.” “Or Inspector Gadget,” I say, wiggling a cock ring in her face, “considering these definitely qualify as go-go gadgets.” “You think you’re funny, but you’re not,” Alex says, coming over to join us. He tosses a pair of camouflage briefs onto the top of my pile and adds, “C’mon, what kind of friend would I be if I didn’t find you weird camo underwear for you to wear during your military-school-brat life crisis?” I glance over at Travis, who is pseudo-casually wandering closer towards the toys and trying to pretend he’s not scoping out some dildos. I spend a long minute imagining exactly where that might lead, but the moment I start to get interested, I’m reminded of how much I’ve already put my junk through for one day. I wince and turn my attention back to Alex, asking him in a low voice, “Did you find out what happened?” “She told him that he’s the one who ruined their relationship by moving out. When he left for New York, he was forfeiting his right to be a part of their family,” Alex says. “She told him there was only one way he could ever hope to make things right between them?” “Well, what is it?” I demand. Alex shrugs. “She told him he has to cut all ties with you. For good. Says she won’t have a son who’s wrapped up in a—these are her words, not mine, and not Travis’—a twisted relationship with the cocksucking drug addict who coerced him into a secret relationship when he was still a child.” I feel sick to my stomach. I flip past another few pairs of shorts without really looking at them. “What did he say?” “He told her no,” Alex says simply. “He told her that you’re the love of his life, and that once you two get back together, he knows it’s going to be forever. Told her he’s not willing to give that up, even if choosing you means that he loses any shot he has at making things right with his family. And then he left.” “Come on,” I groan. “He and I aren’t even together right now, but he’s still willing to—” “Look, maybe you guys aren’t hooking up, or sharing the same bed, or… you know, doing any of the other stuff that people who are together do,” Alex says, “but Travis doesn’t act like a single guy. He hasn’t hooked up with any guys or girls since you two split, because in his mind, he already has someone. He has you. And I guess he thinks that’s worth giving up his family for.” But it’s not. I’m not. I turn and stride off to dump all my selections on the checkout counter. My hands are shaking, and I’m not sure why—all I’m sure of is that I want to get out of here. After I swipe my credit card, I steal Stohler’s phone again to text Jamie and Ben, warning them both that we’re headed back to the apartment. It turns out to be a useless action, because when Alex joins me at the door, he says, “Hey, is it cool with you if Travis brings you back to the apartment? I’m supposed to be meeting some of my friends to go out tonight, and Stohls said she’d give me a ride to the SCSU dorms after we leave here.” I shrug it off—I’d kind of figured I’d be riding with Travis anyway—and collect the bags of my new barely-counts-as-clothing. Travis is still slinking through the aisles of toys, so Stohler whistles to get his attention, then says, “Are you planning to buy something, or can we leave?” “I’m not buying anything,” Travis says, snatching his hand back from whatever he’d been touching. Stohler lopes over to him and peers over his shoulder. “Hmm. Not a bad choice, but I’d suggest—” “Oh my god, I’m not buying anything,” he says. He grabs her by the shoulders and steers her towards the door where Alex and I are waiting. His face is the same color as my car. I want to make fun of him—and the glower he shoots me suggests he expects me to—but I don’t have the heart for it right now. Even under the flush of embarrassment, he still looks so sad about his mom, and it kills me to know that that’s all my fault. Once we get outside and have been abandoned by Alex and Stohler, I dump my shopping bags in the backseat of the car and head for the driver’s side. Before Travis can get behind the wheel, I slip an arm around his waist and pull him into a tight hug. He makes a noise like he’s surprised, but it doesn’t stop him from hugging me back. I say, “I love you. You know that, right?” “I know,” he says. “I love—” “No, listen to me,” I say, twisting so that my mouth is right next to his ear. “I love you. Even though we’re not together right now, you’re still everything to me, and that won’t ever change. No matter how long we’ve been broken up, or who else we’re with, or what else happens in your life, you have me. Always.” His grip on my jacket tightens. “I—” “It doesn’t have to be like this,” I press on. “Alex told me what you said about the talk with your mom. I know you’re hurting right now. I know you’re sad, and I know you’re lonely, but you don’t have to be. We can be together. Travis, I want us to be together.” He goes still in my arms for just a moment before he shifts his hands to my shoulders and straightens his arms, pushing me back and holding me at a distance. His expression is still sad… maybe even sadder than it was a minute ago. “You’re doing it again,” he sighs. I blink. “Doing what?” “You’re doing that thing where you try to pretend that us getting back together is as simple as both of us saying we want it. And it’s not. It wasn’t that simple when you first tried this, when you came back to Lakewood and found out I was dating Ben. It wasn’t that simple when you tried it a second time, after you got out of the hospital, or the third time, when you wanted me to dump my pregnant girlfriend for you, or the fourth time, we had to decide what we were going to do about living together. And it’s not that simple right now, when you’re only six months sober, and my mental stability is hanging on by a fucking thread, and you’ve suddenly decided to enter adult entertainment, and you’re still fucking other guys. I’ve told you this before—it’s not just about the date on the calendar. It’s about whether or not you’re ready to be with anyone, and you’re not. I’m not. So please, don’t make us have this conversation again. Don’t make me be the asshole who turns you down again.” Whether we have this conversation or not, that’s what he’s doing. He’s turning me down again, and I’m the fucking idiot for asking him again. There’s a lump in my throat that I can’t seem to swallow down. When I finally manage it, I give Travis a tight smile, take him by the wrists, and remove his hands from my shoulders. “Okay,” I say hoarsely. “Sorry, I was just trying to… I won’t ask again. You’re right. I’ll stop doing this, okay?” “Okay,” he echoes. We get into his car, and we don’t speak again the whole drive back to the building. When Travis and I get back to the apartment, Jamie and Ben are sitting on the couch together. Ben is sideways, his back against the arm of the couch and his knees steepled over Jamie’s legs; Jamie is sitting mostly upright, though he’s leaning to the side enough that he can rest his temple on Ben’s shoulder. Ben’s throat bears a dark bruise in the shape of Jamie’s mouth, and Jamie’s eyes are red-rimmed like he’s been crying. I don’t know what to make of any of this. “Did you boys have fun on your adventures?” Jamie asks, straightening up. “No,” both Travis and I say. I add, “It hurt so badly, I cried. Alex has a video of it, I’m sure he’ll send it to you later.” Jamie stretches out a hand to me and crooks a finger. “Let me feel.” “If you’re going to start fondling each other, you need to let go of me so that I can get off the couch,” Ben warns. It’s only then that I notice that the fingers of Jamie’s other hand are laced through Ben’s. “Seriously. I want no part of this.” “You’ve already had all the parts of this,” Travis points out. “If that hickey on your neck is any indication, you’ve had parts of this within the last couple of hours.” I toe off my boot so that I can fold up the hem of my jeans leg until the bottom few inches of my calf are bared. “Look at this shit. I look like a fuckin’ chick.” “Uh, no, you look like a dude with bare legs,” Ben says, rolling his eyes. “Since when does the amount of body hair you have do anything to change your gender identity?” Awesome, another goddamn lecture, courtesy of the fucking Feminist Coalition, or whoever he hangs out with these days—just what I was hoping for. I hope Jamie shoves him off the couch, but instead, Jamie gestures to a menu on the coffee table and says, “We were just discussing the idea of getting takeout delivered. Do either of you want anything?” “Shouldn’t we be heading out?” I say, glancing at Ben even as I accept the menu. “You’re already late for work.” “I called in,” he replies. “I wanted to—” He stops, sneaks a glance at Jamie, and shrugs. “I called in. Dad’s having me pick up a few extra hours next week instead. Do you want food, or not?” Of course I want food. I always want food. The four of us order takeout and spend the rest of the afternoon—and most of the night—feasting on Chinese and watching shitty, edited-for-content movies on TV. It’s nearly eleven by the time Travis, Jamie, and I decide to head out. We gather our coats, and Ben walks us out to the car. That’s weird enough, considering the fact that Ben has never once walked me to my car after a night of greasy food and bad television; it’s weirder still when Travis and I both duck into the car, but Jamie lingers outside to speak to Ben. A long minute passes, and when I finally peer out at them, they’re pressed against the side of the car, kissing. Travis lays on the horn—they jump apart—and rolls down the window to say, “Ben, what is with you and defiling my car? Do you want to spit James’ jizz on the windshield, too?” “Dude, he probably swallowed that at like, two o’clock. That ship sailed hours ago,” I say. Jamie rolls his eyes and climbs into the backseat, assuring Ben through the open window, “I’ll call you about dinner, alright?” “What dinner?” I demand to know as Travis pulls away from the curb. “We just had dinner, why do you guys need dinner again? Where are you going? Can I come—” “No, you may not,” Jamie interrupts. “He’s going to come to New York the next night he has off from work, and I’m going to take him to dinner. That’s all.” “To make up for the date that never was?” Travis clarifies. Jamie nods and repeats, “To make up for the date that never was.” I kick my feet up onto the dashboard. “When you and Ben get married, do I get to tell hilarious stories during my best man speech? Like, can I talk about how your relationship started as hatesex, but got wildly out of hand? Can I talk about how you totally told him it was the worst sex you ever had right after he boned you for the first time? Can I talk about that time you banged in my Ferrari and didn’t even have the decency to get it detailed after—” “You are revolting,” Jamie says, punctuating each word with a kick to the back of my seat. “I’m not going to marry the midget. Sweet everloving Christ, Garen. And if you ever say that again, you won’t be my best man, regardless of who I marry.” I turn to Travis and say, “Their first dance could be to that Ludo song you like.” “Which one?” he asks. Jamie makes the same pissy noise that Zooey makes every time he picks her up. “There isn’t going to be a first dance, because I’m not going to—”

“Kill me romantically,” I sing over him, making jazz hands and swaying from side to side in time with the beat in my head, “fill my soul with vomit, then ask me for a piece of gum--” “Yes, that’s exactly what everyone wants: a wedding song with the word ‘vomit’ in it,” Jamie says dryly. “Kind of fitting, though, considering the way you and Ben talk to each other,” Travis points out. “Bitter and dumb, you’re my sugarplum.” I twist around in my seat as much as my seatbelt will allow. “You’re awful—I love you!” I spend the rest of the car ride back to my dad’s house belting out the rest of the song, followed by as many other insulting love songs as I can think of. By the time Travis parks, I’ve pretty much exhausted myself, and the guys seem tired just from listening to me. It doesn’t take much coaxing for me to convince them that we might as well go downstairs and go right to sleep, even though I don’t have any intention of sleeping at all. Once downstairs in my room, I climb onto the bed between them, and they both immediately inch closer and start prodding me around until I’m posed to their satisfaction. It works out surprisingly well, actually—Travis always likes to be the big spoon, and Jamie always likes to sleep face-to-face, so that’s how we end up: Travis curled up against my back, his hand resting on my waist, and Jamie pressed to my front, his arms folded between our chests and his face tucked under my chin. It takes both of them a while to fall asleep. Jamie nods off first, his breathing going slow and steady on my collarbone. I can tell when Travis finally taps out later because he eventually stops dragging his thumb back and forth over my skin. They’re both deeply asleep before midnight, but I don’t even close my eyes. I stay awake all night, keeping watch over my two orphan boys.

202 days sober Declan shows up at my house on Monday night in an old but well-maintained, white pick-up truck, the bed of which is full of photography crap he has appropriated from the Patton art department. I’m sitting on the porch with Omelette, who goes berserk the second Declan climbs down from the cab. “Nice truck,” I say, staring at it. My mind is already running away on me, conjuring up images of all the things we could get up to on that bench seat. Country music video meets gay porno. “Nice dog,” Declan says, dropping to one knee long enough to let Omelette climb all over him, lick his face, give a valiant effort to mounting him. Sometimes, my dog and I are of one mind. Declan gives me a look like he’s thinking the same thing, and snorts, nudging Omelette back down and straightening up. “Where do you want to set up?” I shrug. “My room, I guess? Easier than rearranging all the furniture in the living room.” He hoists one of the bags from the truck and says, “Grab some equipment and lead the way.” I open my mouth to tell him exactly what kind of equipment I’d like to grab—namely, his—but he’s already giving me that look, the one that says he’s filling in the blanks on my cheesy innuendos and finding them lacking. I flash him a thumbs-up and grab an oversized duffel that feels like it’s full of metal rods. Later, once we’ve carted everything up to my bedroom and I have sprawled out on my bed with Omelette to watch Declan set up, I discover that my assumption isn’t too far off base. The rods screw together to form a giant frame that Declan sets up in front of the wall. There are little legs attached to the bottom so that it can support its own weight, and he sets about clipping a huge gray canvas to the top bar. Noticing my curiosity, he explains, “If you don’t have a plain backdrop, your pictures are going to look like shit.” “Impossible. I’m gorgeous,” I say immediately. He rolls his eyes and starts setting up a pair of giant lamps with funky umbrellas on them. His silence isn’t an agreement, but it isn’t a denial either. I stay quiet, carefully fluffing Omelette’s fur into a mohawk that runs from the top of his head to just above his tail. “You need to get out,” Declan finally says. For a second, I think he’s talking to me—which would be so fucking rude—but when I look up, he’s staring at Omelette. When Omelette’s only response is to wag his tail, Declan looks at me. “He needs to get out. He’ll get his fur all over you and the backdrop. Send him downstairs and change your shirt.” Omelette gives me a wide-eyed, betrayed stare as I guide him out into the hall and close the door. I consider putting on a show while changing into a fresh black t-shirt, but Declan’s attention is focused on his camera, not on me. I ask, “Is there even a point to me putting on a shirt? These pictures are to help me get a job as a go-go boy; I doubt I should be giving them a full-clothed portfolio.” “We’re going to try a few different things. Some clothed, some not. Some full-body, some close-ups of your face.” He hitches his chin towards the backdrop, and once I’ve stepped into position, he slips into a commanding (and incredibly hot) director mode. Turn this way, turn that way, tilt your head this way, now go back, put your hands here, take your shirt off, turn again, do this, do that, stop undressing me with your eyes, nevermind, keep undressing me with your eyes, but don’t smirk so much. “Are you any good at this?” I ask, gesturing to his camera between clicks. “Photography, I mean. Have you been doing it long?” “Turn your head about thirty degrees to the right, and lift your chin a bit,” he says. Only once I’ve obeyed and he has taken two more shots does he add, “Three years. But I only got into portraiture a year or so ago.” I shoot him a wry smile that he captures at once. “Portraiture. How artistic.” “Well, if I say ‘portraiture’ instead of ‘pornography,’ it’s a bit easier to find girls who want to take their clothes off so I can take pictures of them,” he explains. I laugh, and there’s another click. He reaches out and taps a finger against the button of my jeans. “Take these off.” I pop the button, drop the zipper, and shove my jeans down to my knees. I kick them the rest of the way off, and Declan snaps a few more pictures of me in just a pair of tight black briefs, even though I’m leaning to one side and not looking at the camera—nothing I can use for a headshot. I clear my throat and say, “What do you do with the pictures you take of girls? Store ‘em on your computer for a night when you can’t find any good porn to jerk off to?” “No. I don’t do anything with them,” he says with a shrug. “I just take them. A lot of the girls I sleep with… they like it. It makes them feel sexy. I wouldn’t take pictures of anyone who didn’t ask me to, and I wouldn’t keep the pictures of anyone who asked me to delete them. Most of them are on my computer in protected folders, but I don’t really look at them that often. It’s just something to set the mood for a night. It’s foreplay.” “I guess—” “Put your arms up,” Declan cuts me off. “I want to see—yeah, that’s perfect.” I don’t a chance to find out what he wants to see, because he returns his focus to the lens once my arms are over my head, bent at the elbows with my fingers interlocked behind my neck. I give him a few different angles, turning and posing and feeling like an absolute douche, but looking pretty good while doing it, if the look of careful study on Declan’s face is any indication. When I think I can get away with speaking without being interrupted, I try again, “I guess I should feel honored to be the first person who gets to star in their own nearly-naked Declan Campbell photoshoot without it being a precursor to sex.” “Who says you’re the first?” he says. He takes another picture, then shifts the camera aside just enough to smirk at me around it. “And who says this isn’t a precursor to sex?” “Is it?” I ask. The corner of his mouth tips up in a smirk. “The night’s not over yet. Still plenty of time for you to join the ranks.” “Didn’t realize that was something we were acknowledging,” I say. His expression shifts to something questioning, but he doesn’t speak. I give up on posing and let my arms drop to my sides. “You’re not the first straight guy I’ve fucked around with. Most of the others have been sort of a one-and-done deal.” “We stroked each other off in the woods, Anderson. It’s not exactly something I plan to make a big deal out of,” Declan says, finally lowering his camera. He gives my body a cursory once-over, and I’d be offended by how unaffected he seems, if not for the fact that his golden-brown eyes still blaze when they lock onto mine. “Besides… I started chubbing up pretty much the second you got behind the wheel of that cop car. Especially when you said—” I find myself swaying towards him when he leans in close enough that the camera bumps between our chests, “--my name’s Garen, and I’ll be your driver this evening.” I slip a finger under the camera strap and slowly drag my knuckle up the length of his chest. “In that case, we should go out to your truck and do some roleplay,” I say. “I’ll climb up into the driver’s seat and say it as many times as you want me to, if the line really gets you going that much.” “It’s not the line that gets me going,” Declan says, and he curls his hand over the back of my neck and hauls me into a kiss. I’m not surprised, like I was the last time this happened. I think I suspected we’d end up doing this tonight, and Declan must have, too—when his tongue slips into my mouth, I can feel the barbell shot through it, can hear the echo of him once mentioning to me that he usually only puts it in when he thinks he’s going to be getting laid. And if that’s what he was hoping for, that’s what I intend to make happen. “I’m going to need to you to be naked now,” I say. With my mouth still so close to his, I can feel the spread of his slow, deadly smile before he says, “Get on the bed.” He doesn’t have to ask twice. I walk backwards until my knees hit the edge of the bed, and then I flop back onto it, pulling myself up to settle comfortably against my pillows, only half upright. Declan slips the camera strap over his head and moves to set it down on my nightstand, but I catch his wrist and take the camera from him. When I raise it to look through the viewfinder, he’s smirking at me. I take a picture. It doesn’t faze him at all. He lets me take picture after picture as he undresses, shameless even once he’s completely naked. He kneels on the edge of the bed and crawls towards me, stroking his cock in a way that could only be described as absentmindedly. When he reaches me, he takes the camera from me and sets it down on the bed, fitting himself between my knees and leaning in to kiss me. He skims a hand up my leg, ankle to knee, then curves over the back of my thigh and drags his palm up to my ass. I squirm and grumble, “It feels fucking weird, having someone do that to me without any hair on me.” Declan chuckles. “I think it would probably feel weird for me if you had hair. Almost all the girls I fuck have smooth legs.” His fingertips dip down to trail another feather-light touch along my thigh. “Like this.” “If you can adjust to a one hundred percent increase in the amount of dicks in the bed, I’m pretty sure you’d have no problem adjusting to that amount of body hair,” I say. He sits back on his haunches and gives my crotch an unsettlingly long look of consideration before he shrugs and slips his hand into my underwear. “The dick isn’t that difficult to get used to, actually. I have one of my own, so we aren’t operating in entirely foreign territory.” “And I’d assume that blowjobs aren’t foreign territory, either, right?” I say. “Giving or receiving?” he asks, flicking his tongue out just enough to make his piercing click against his teeth. My dick is painfully hard in the circle of his fist, and I’d be lying if I pretended I didn’t want to push him down my body until I could feel that tongue ring on me. But the last thing I need is to push too far and scare him back into the bed of whatever Ward girl he crawled out of most recently. “Both, in time,” I say, and I haul him up the length of my torso until he’s straddling my chest. I lift my neck just enough to allow the head of his cock brush over my lips. “For right now, though…” He rocks forward—not really fucking my face, just pushing into my mouth. It’s so much better than last time. I can see him now; I can look up at him, watch his expressions and the way his eyes flutter shut, the way his lips part ever so slightly. My own eyes fall closed, and I turn my attention to enjoying every last inch of him. His cock is heavy and perfect on my tongue, weighing me down, steadying me. This is what I need. This is what I’m good for. Above my head, there’s a loud click. I glance up and am treated to another click—Declan’s camera is back, and it’s aimed right at me, capturing each of my movements. I let his dick slip out of my mouth, but before I can say anything, he offers, “I can stop, if you want me to.” Stopping is the last thing I want him to do. My blood pulses faster through my veins, and I feel my skin starting to heat up in that way it only ever does when I know I’m being watched. I am nothing if not a complete slut for attention. I grab two handfuls of Declan’s ass and yank him in again, until the head of his cock presses into the back of my throat and I have to swallow around it. He lets out a faint huff of air that sounds almost like a laugh, and drops one hand from the camera so that he can stroke my too-short hair. Another few pictures from him, another few bobs of my head, and he makes another strangled sound, though this one sounds more frustrated. He abandons the camera on the bedside table so that he can get both hands on me, curving his palms against my jaw. He brushes his thumbs over my lips, feeling where his cock disappears into my mouth. I tighten my grip on his ass. He shivers. “Where do you keep your condoms?” I let my head drop back onto the pillow so that his cock slips from my mouth again. “Nightstand drawer. Grab the lube, too.” He climbs off me to obey, and when he returns with his prizes, he spreads himself out over me, pinning me to the mattress with his muscle weight and kissing me deeply. One of his hands returns to my knee, curling under it and hitching it up over his hip so that we can rock against each other better. He doesn’t seem at all nervous, which is sort of bizarre—I’m used to more apprehension when I fuck guys who aren’t experienced with other guys. “You’ve never done this before, have you?” I say. He laughs. “Of course I have.” I pull away from him slightly, blinking in surprise. “You have?” “Garen, I’ve fucked hundreds of girls. Are you really that shocked to learn that some of them liked anal?” he says. He ducks to press a kiss just below my ear and says, “I can go slow, if it’s been a while for you.” It has been a while. It’s been months—not since the night last fall when I let Travis try. Even now, I can still feel the aching fullness of him shoved inside me; I can still feel the grip of panic choking me out and making it impossible for me to breathe, let alone enjoy what was happening. And obviously Declan thinks that he—as the straight one—is going to be on top. Obviously he expects me to be some needy, cock-hungry bottom just because I’ve done this before. My whole body feels like it’s locked up tight, but the moment his fingers stray too close to my ass, I shake out the rigidness in my limbs and roll us over until our positions are reversed. I’m straddling him now, so he’s still between my legs, still too close for comfort. I wriggle back until I’m seated on his thighs instead of poised for fucking. I don’t bottom, is what I should say. Simple as that. Take it or leave it. Instead, the explanation gets caught in my throat, and the first thing I can think to say is, “When’s your birthday?” His brow creases. “Why does it matter?” “Last month, Charlie said you don’t turn seventeen until April,” I say. “But he didn’t—which day, specifically?” “A week from tomorrow,” he says. “April tenth. Why does that—where the fuck are you going?” “I’m not going to sleep with a sixteen-year-old,” I say. I’m not sure I sound sufficiently determined enough, given that all I’m really feeling is relief at not having to explain myself or my aversion to bottoming. But it’s a perfect excuse right now, and I’m going to fucking run with it. I clamber off the bed and search out my jeans near the backdrop. Before I can pull them on, Declan leans over and catches my wrist. “I don’t understand. You seemed fine with it two minutes ago.” “Because I forgot. I only just remembered how young you are,” I say. “You’re sixteen, I’m nineteen. And I’m not a fucking rapist.” He squints. “I know that, Anderson. And in case you haven’t realized, I’m not objecting to any of this.” “Well, according to the state of New York, you can’t give full consent. Not for another week. And I know that what we’ve already done could probably get me in trouble anyway, but I don’t want to push it any further.” I tug my wrist out of his grasp and get my jeans on. Once I’m covered, I feel much more secure, enough to add, somewhat apologetically, “I’ll fuck you when I know I’m not going to get arrested for statutory rape.” Declan cocks his head to the side, but doesn’t speak. His eyes are slightly narrowed, and I’m beginning to suspect he’s about to start an argument. But instead, he reaches over to the nightstand and picks up his camera. He beckons me closer, and when I reluctantly sink onto the bed next to him, he shifts around until I can see the screen. He calls up the most recent picture; it’s one of the shots of me sucking him off. He deletes it. In full view of me, he goes through every single picture, deleting all the ones where he’s even remotely in frame. Once they’re gone, he removes the memory card, drops it on my palm, and leans in to kiss me. I let him, only because he isn’t pushing for more. When he pulls back, he says, “Fine.” “What’s fine?” I say blankly. “You don’t want to fuck—that’s fine,” he says. “I wouldn’t tell anyone if we did, and you wouldn’t get arrested for it. But if you’re not interested, that’s fine.” I scrub a hand over my scalp and say, “It’s not that I’m not interested, Dec. You have no idea how interested I am. Just not… that. Not fucking. Not right now.” Not until I can come up with a good excuse for why I won’t bottom, without sending him running from the possibility of having to bottom himself. Declan hums in consideration and sprawls back out on the bed. One of his hands lands on his stomach; he trails his fingers back and forth, drawing my eye from his pecs to his groin. He’s still mostly hard. I can’t help but want to reach for him. When I look back up at his face, he’s grinning. He says, “For a guy who just shot me down, that’s a hell of a stare.” “I shot down penetration,” I correct. “I didn’t shoot down jerking you off. And like, maybe having you come on my face, if the mood strikes me—” “Get over here,” he says, and I’m on him in an instant, slinging a leg over him and settling onto his thighs as my hand goes to his cock. And then, from out in the hall, I hear a voice say, “Hey, Garen. Whose truck is out—” The door opens, and Travis freezes. He stares at me. I stare back. Declan stops kissing my neck just long enough to say, “Oh, hey. Travis, right?” Travis backs out into the hall and slams the door shut. I let my head loll forward so that my forehead is resting against Declan’s shoulder and mutter, “Fuck.” “I hate to break it to you, but the roommate situation is definitely different for straight guys,” Declan says. He opens the button of my jeans again and slips his hand in. “Whenever Javi and I walk in on each other, we can’t get out of there fast enough.” I don’t reply. All I can think about is Travis saying, you’re still fucking other guys. Travis saying, it’s about whether or not you’re ready to be with anyone, and you’re not. Travis saying, please don’t make us have this conversation again. Declan nudges my shoulder. “Do you want me to go?” Travis saying, don’t make me be the asshole who turns you down again. I lift my head and flash Declan my most vicious, heart-stopping smile. “Course not, babe,” I say. “We’re just getting started.”